


Love in the Time of High Fructose Corn Syrup

by orphan_account



Series: What We Do In The Semidarkness [2]
Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M, Familiar Mallory, Fluff and Crack, Grocery Shopping, Humor, Vampire Michael, What We Do In The Shadows AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-23 21:49:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20234872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Michael and Mallory go shopping.





	Love in the Time of High Fructose Corn Syrup

**Author's Note:**

> The plot and characters of American Horror Story: Apocalypse belong to Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk. 
> 
> All mistakes are my own.
> 
> **Check the comments for a bonus goodie.

Each vampire in the nest has adopted a ritual to help them keep in touch: Madison watches movies, Gallant reads and Michael—Michael goes shopping.

Mallory has no desire to unpack the 400 years of emotional baggage behind his thought process, so she just goes with it.

The last time he had the urge to ‘walk among the disease riddled vermin,’ he’d insisted on accompanying her to the shoe store.

Foot fetishes were revealed and promptly repressed.

Michael’s reaction to the first pair of shoes she’d tried on had been memorable. His exact words were, ‘It’s not that I don’t like them, Mallory. I am physically repulsed.’

Long story short, she's less than pleased when he asks to accompany her to the grocery store.

\--

An embarrassing run-in with the store’s automatic doors has Mallory darting away from Michael and disappearing among the shelves.

She makes it to the cereal aisle before she feels a dark presence behind her.

“Eighteen inches,” she says on instinct.

The breathing on her neck disappears. They’re still working on personal space.

“What exactly are you looking for among this row of grains in geometric shapes?” Michael asks.

Mallory stands on her tiptoes to grab a box of Corn Flakes from an upper shelf. “Madison’s on a Buffy kick. She’s determined to try crumbling cereal into her blood to give it texture.”

Michael hums in consideration while she swaps the box for Weetabix. His gaze burns across her backside when she stretches up again.

Fucking letch.

“I maintain my opinion that those denim trousers you insist on wearing make you appear short and unattractive. However, I must concede that they are rather flattering to your fesses galbées. An uncultured peasant such as yourself may be unfamiliar with classical languages. You should know that I’m paying a compliment to your—”

Gallant will the rue the day that he'd insisted his housemates learn about love languages. Mallory will make sure of it.

Michael made her sit through three violin solos that literally sounded like horse hairs rasping against the entrails of a cat until she’d admitted her preference for words of affirmation.

He's taken to peppering them in between his usual insults.

Last week he likened the colour of her eyes to a sun-baked turd before complimenting the ‘somewhat pleasing’ shape of her nose.

Just as she was then, Mallory’s currently torn between outrage and amusement at his gall.

“Arrête de regarder mon cul tu vieille botte en cuir," she mutters.

Michael scoffs at her dismissal. “Was that an attempt at French? Or some variation of Orkish? Please refrain from uttering your black speech in my presence wastrel.”

She imagines him on fire. No. Shaved bald, covered in honey and thrown into a swarm of bees.

Her smile is lost to him. “Yes, Master.”

“Good. Quit standing about and help me find the bits of pressurized carbon dioxide. Madison’s idea intrigues me.”

Her eyeroll is a masterclass in derision.

"Because that's definitely easier to remember than Pop Rocks.”

Michael moves with menacing grace. Between one breath and the next, he’s looming over her.

Brilliant blue eyes narrow on her face.

“You know Mallory, your attitude makes me doubt your worthiness for salvation,” he whispers threateningly.

She blinks. “What a shame it would be to shuffle off this mortal coil and permanently depart your presence. The agony. The sorrow.”

Michael’s lips quirk. “No need to fret, Mouse. Emotional displays are unbecoming.”

He withdraws from her bubble and spins on an expensively clad foot. “Now, should we also get the invertebrates made of gelatin?”


End file.
